


Fragile

by yasmean



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Manipulation, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Slow Build, Unrequited Love, did i say angst? i meant aaangst, verbose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasmean/pseuds/yasmean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, how he loved the small things in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Porcelain

**Author's Note:**

> hi hq fandom im yasmin and im rrready to rumble
> 
> pre-tagging for some things, but there will be warnings at the start of each chapter; as this goes along there will be more and more tags added. 
> 
> as an overall warning, the underage tag is both for teen/teen and adult/teen, so please be wary of that.
> 
> anyways! thanks!

            He had a penchant for small things. He collected little items wherever he went; Yamaguchi all but refused to go thrifting with him because he'd stand for half an hour, debating between one unneeded cherub figurine and another, made infinitely more frustrating  by his tendency to just buy both. He’d sigh as they walked out of the store, turning his face to the sky and not even having to look at Tsukishima’s face to ask, _‘What was it that you also wanted to buy?’_ And Tsukishima would keep his eyes downcast, and he’d always respond _‘Nothing.’_ , and it’d be up to Yamaguchi to go back to the store later and try and hazard a guess as to what it was his friend had thrown a fit over. (Not that Yamaguchi minded—he liked playing detective.)

            Tsukishima was entirely predictable in that sense—though he was certainly capable of reason, he was also incredibly stubborn and unable to conceive why he couldn’t have something. Yamaguchi had no doubt that if there was ever a time Tsukishima saw something he wanted and was denied it that he’d just take it, with a single-track mindset of _‘Well, I wanted it.’_ (Not that Yamaguchi was any different—if push came to shove he’d steal for Tsukishima anytime.)

            And sometimes it wasn’t necessarily something from a store. A sliver of porcelain along the walk home had caught his eye once, delicate white with hairline grey cracking, with a lace blue pattern that had been lost in the breakage, that now only served as sharply contrasting cobalt streaks. Yamaguchi had been prattling, talking about the matches he and Makoto (‘ _Shimada-senpai,_ ’ which _ping_ s against Tsukishima’s ears and leaves an incessantly irritating ring each time he hears it.) had reviewed together, when the sliver of white light drew his waning attention away. Yamaguchi, always astute, stopped mid-sentence: _‘What’d you see, Tsukki?’_ It was a small shard, it fit neatly into his hand but lacked any sharp points or rough edges, as if it was sea glass awash in an ocean of concrete, smooth and honed and dazzling. They stood like that, Yamaguchi’s eyes flickering between Tsukishima’s and the porcelain that had so fixated his attention, the cicada's swan song at their backs. But inevitably he pocketed it, and they carried along, Yamaguchi resuming his story at the exact word where he’d cut it off, and Tsukishima turning the porcelain in the confines of his pocket, imperceptibly, his eyes fixated on the setting sun, his ears attentive to Yamaguchi’s words, and his mind elsewhere.

            Yamaguchi thought it’d have been better if he had kept the trinkets hidden away; it could be written down to compulsive buying, even minor hoarding tendencies. If Tsukishima simply collected and then discarded, there were ways of dealing with it. But he didn’t. He collected to keep, he collected what both interested him and what complimented his already acquired objects. He’d installed shelves, during a weekend at the end of their junior high years, and suddenly his collection had exploded: Yamaguchi had seen him collect, had seen what he collected, but all of a sudden he could see it in full scope, not just held in small tins or scattered along the window sill. He had hundreds of these items, all arranged in a bastardisation of feng shui; the shelves lined each of the four walls of his bedroom, stacked stylistically, with the objects occupying them in perfect tandem with each other. When he first saw it all, he was amazed. He spent at least an hour, sitting on Tsukishima’s bed and just watching as the light hit each piece, illuminated each individual world and put them in the scope of their respective galaxies that existed on each shelf, in the context of the universe of Tsukki's bedroom that they all occupied, Yamaguchi included. He thought of all the ways that Tsukki must have pictured each individual piece: in the setting of the sun, at different times of the year, at different times of the day. Hundreds of pieces all coalesced into one presentation, small metal beads against shimmering scraps of fabric, ordered by fluidity. It amazed him that one person, one person that he _knew_ —not some savant that he’d read an article about—possessed such a beautiful skill. There was a lot to Tsukki that was beautiful, too, but in a reserved sense. By contrast, this arrangement was dumbfounding, was a definitive _‘Look what I can do!’_ that Yamaguchi wasn’t sure Tsukishima knew he was even saying. Yamaguchi sat there for an hour at least, basking in the genius of his friend. Tsukishima did his maths homework.

            But there were boxes, too. Some that Yamaguchi didn’t know about. There were boxes of other small things, of other small memories that represented abstract concepts; how could you explain that a single uniform button represented absolute _disgust_ , even if the memory it held had lasted, at most, thirty seconds? Tsukishima and Yamaguchi were good at communicating, good at stealing glances that could speak whole paragraphs, twitches of eyebrows that could write novels, but even within all those chances for words there existed things Tsukishima just couldn’t say.

            Yamaguchi asked a lot of questions, and was prone to flitting between two extremes: there was a lot he wanted to know, but a single knock against his confidence would send him reeling, completely unable to recover, and so he avoided the questions he knew he would never get answers for, and Tsukishima avoided the answers that Yamaguchi couldn't handle. Even after the initial awe wore off, they’d sit on Tsukishima’s bed, their legs progressively getting longer until it was a month before high school and Tsukishima’s legs almost hung over  the edge, and Yamaguchi would ask about the small things. About the small memories. About the glass shards kept preserved in little glass boxes, as if they were crown jewels, as if at any moment a security guard would come patrolling through the room. Yamaguchi was always good at talking, at occupying the space that sometimes existed between them with meaningless chatter, but what he liked more was making Tsukishima talk; he was a manipulator by no means, but it was the little pleasures that made him happy, the moments where he could watch Tsukki’s face in profile as he looked through his wall into a memory Yamaguchi felt he could have been witness to. They spent years like that—Yamaguchi filling up the hours of the day that existed between Tsukishima’s spiels with nonsense words, that both of them only half-listened to. It was as if to him, there existed only the times where Tsukki spoke and when he didn’t; clocks had no purpose, the punctual distinctions that everyone around him followed were arbitrary guidelines, subheadings to the title ‘Tsukishima Kei Speaks’.

            There were the small boxes that Tsukishima kept, not hidden but invisible to Yamaguchi all the same, perhaps because he knew what they implied, knew that they represented holes in this world that they’d created together. That in those small boxes, in those small trinkets existed stories and those stories were encompassed by an entirely new plane that ran in parallel to ‘Tsukishima Kei Speaks’—‘Tsukishima Kei Speaks, And He Never Speaks Again’.

            They existed on the precipice between these two worlds; Yamaguchi had teetered to his present world by sheer force, and would do anything to keep that balance in place.

            Anything.


	2. Coke Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mario voice* here we gooo

There were certain things that Tsukishima had come to expect in life. There were everyday pleasures and obstacles that would inevitably come to pass, but beyond these there were overarching themes of his existence that, with everything else put aside, shaped who he was. There was Yamaguchi, who simply _was_ , in the sense of both being around and simply being. He wasn’t a pillar, he wasn’t a foundation, and he certainly wasn’t Tsukishima’s air or water or blood. But he was a welcome expectation; he was the season’s changing, the reliability of the autumn leaf’s fall. He was to Tsukishima as a thermometer was to the temperature—adaptive, constant, and above all, true.

            He expected things to be in that order. These archetypes of his always followed suit: they were adaptive, constant, and always true. Jazz was adaptive, constant, and always true. His absolute scorn for all things he didn’t consider relevant to himself was adaptive, constant, and always true. His guilt (over many things, which all became One Thing that heaved itself through each doorway, that hung languidly around his shoulders, that both pressed and pulled him, moulded his thoughts) was adaptive, constant, and always true. His isolation was adaptive, constant, and always true.

            He was not necessarily a man of routine, but he was a man of prediction, of belief. He was a man of pattern: both observing them and committing himself to them. He and his overarching themes walked in circles together, looped in intricate patterns; he walked through relationships with them, with feet that made the ground shake. _Thud._ ‘I’ve seen you in class, and I just wanted to say…’ _Thud_. ‘I’d like to get to know you better…’ _Thud_. ‘Kei, I’m sorry—’ _Thud_. He had Guilt, Isolation, Jazz, Scorn and  Yamaguchi. There was not room for anyone else.

            ‘Tsukki!’ He looked up from the cuticle he was worrying to Yamaguchi, then to the flyer slid onto his desk. ‘We should join, hm?’

**KARASUNO MEN’S VOLLEYBALL TEAM**

_Come join the previous National players!_

 

_DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES?_

First meeting held Tuesday after school in the Second Gymnasium

Obtain Club Registration Forms from…

 

 

            His eyes looked over it once, noting in particular the emblazoned challenge. _DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES?_

            (No. He didn’t.)

            ‘Not interested.’ he murmured, pushing the paper towards Yamaguchi, who’d taken a seat beside him. There wasn’t room for anything else.

            Yamaguchi wasn’t fazed in the slightest, nodding as if he’d expected that answer and folding the paper to put into his bag. He smiled, the fake-eyes-closed one, the one where he’s disappointed but doesn’t want to show it completely. The one that Tsukishima’s seen all too often. Yamaguchi shrugs softly. ‘I think I’m gonna try out. It sounds kind of fun.’

            ‘Suit yourself,’ Tsukishima responds, settling into his chair as Yamaguchi fills the silence. The autumn sun cuts parallels through the blinds onto the desk in front of them, thick blades of light just beyond their small, dark corner of the classroom. Tsukishima rests his head against the wall as he watches Yamaguchi talk with those around them, eager, always so eager to talk and it. Hurts. The thought of Yamaguchi doing something without him makes the Isolation move, makes it lumber into the classroom and pull up a chair between them, makes it force Tsukishima’s gaze; he can’t watch Yamaguchi leave him, so he watches those parallel slits of light.

            _I’m here._ Isolation whispers, thick arms folded on the table with its head between, watching him with intent eyes.

            Tsukishima doesn’t respond. He already knows.

 

* * *

 

 

            ‘Wow! So both of you want to join, huh?’ Daichi beams at their bowed heads, hands on his hips and, for the first time in a while, actual _anticipation_ in his chest. ‘That’s awesome! We can always use new players! Guess our advertising really worked this year. Do either of you have any experience?’

            Yamaguchi talks first, in that awkward animated way he always does, glancing to Tsukishima for reassurance, who meets his gaze only half the time. As Yamaguchi talks, Tsukishima looks around, takes in the size of the gymnasium, the slight smell of sweat that’s likely permeated the treated wood. He never thought he’d step foot in a high school gym, let alone for volleyball. Let alone at the same school where—

            He blinks the thought away, quickly. He’s not here to reminisce. He’s not even here to play; he’s here to watch Yamaguchi. Like an irate parent. _Like a jealous owner_ , Guilt whispers from around his neck, coiling ever so slightly, making his collarbone itch.

            ‘And you?’ Tsukishima flicks his gaze back to the captain, and sizes him up. He’s plain but reliable looking, the kind of person that forms the backbone of a team. He’s all smiles and not-feigned interest, a shift from his attitude to Yamaguchi. Tsukishima notices. ‘Do you have any experience…Tsukishima-kun, was it?’ Another fake smile, with his eyes shut.

            ‘No.’ He responds bluntly, holding Daichi’s gaze for a moment before looking off again. Looking everywhere but at Yamaguchi, whose bewilderment is almost audible. Tsukishima looks back, to deliver his final line for the entire meeting. ‘I’m not sure if I want to join.’

            Daichi takes a second to recover, but bounces back quickly. ‘Well, hopefully we can convince you to join! We could always use your height!’ He laughs a courteous laugh to himself, a laugh at a joke that was never spoken. Tsukishima doesn’t find it funny, but parses a courteous smile. Yamaguchi, waiting for his lead, smiles as well. All of them, smiling courteously, at a courteous non-joke.

            ‘In any case,’ Daichi continues, breaking the smiles, but carrying a lingering upturn to his lips. ‘We’re setting up an introductory match between the first years here on Saturday, so it’ll give you both a chance to see how you like the club. I’ve got both of your addresses, so I’ll forward the details.’ Daichi beamed, again, the closed-eye smile, with his hands on his hips. A real Captain, in the face of having a fully fledged team.

            ‘We’ll be there!’ Yamaguchi says excitedly.

            ‘Mmm.’ Tsukishima responds. He’s said his fill.

            ‘See you then!’ Daichi closes with, dismissing them with a final thumbs up.

 

* * *

 

 

            If there was a definite moment that set his world askew, it was that walk home, as the gap between Tsukishima and his thermometer widened,  even as they walked together, almost shoulder to shoulder it was a gap all the same; the space between the folds of their shirts held fear on both sides, and excitement on one and dread on the other. This was something new to them both; they had quarrels, but rarely was either of them forced into action to keep the space between them consistent; if Tsukishima didn’t want to go to the cafeteria to eat, even if Yamaguchi forgot his lunch, he wouldn’t go. They’d split Tsukishima’s food like two desperately poor flatmates—more willing to hunger through a class period than to spend time apart. If Yamaguchi got sick during class, he would stay in the nurse’s office until Tsukishima was able to sneak out.

            As reliable as Yamaguchi was, he was just as reliant.

            They existed in balance, one taking a step forward and to compensate, the other taking a step back. If Yamaguchi thought of their tightrope as existing between a world of With Tsukishima and a world of Without, Tsukishima thought of it as a platform between the World and Himself, a thin plank that kept him from being completely alone. While Yamaguchi balanced his words, Tsukishima balanced his actions. If Yamaguchi could refrain from asking, then once in a while Tsukishima could be the one to take the step back.

            But these were thoughts that existed in the space between them, not spoken aloud but in the gaps between the fabrics of their shirts like a heavy perfume, thoughts that shrouded each of them like a heavy sigh.

            They had resigned themselves to a semi-comfortable silence as they walked through the park. For once, to Yamaguchi, one of the small things no longer seemed so small; surely Tsukishima had a reason for lying, for downplaying himself, but the entire situation had the mood of something tucked away tightly, deep inside Tsukishima’s closet, in the smallest box possible, but it still had an ominous aura. A supposedly small thing that had grandiose implications, a small thing that made Yamaguchi feel small in comparison.

            Tsukishima stopped suddenly, peering at a sparse wall of trees. In the silence, he could here soft chatter, the _thuck_ of a ball being hit. He began to follow it, with Yamaguchi trailing slightly behind him, unable to hear the noise, unnerved by Tsukishima’s sudden vigour.

            They reached the clearing, where two boys practiced receives, one dark haired and the other glaringly ginger. They stood out in the shadow of the dusk, two pale figures, with a slight sheen of sweat that illuminated them in the lamp light, refractions of light like halos around them both. Tsukishima clicked his tongue. ‘You recognise that one on the left?’

            Yamaguchi flinched, surprised at hearing Tsukishima’s voice. ‘Mm-no, I don’t think so. Daichi sent a text with the people we would be going against, though, let me find it…’ his voice trailed off as he rummaged in his bag.

            Tsukishima didn’t need a name. He knew who the setter was, knew from how he carried himself. _Kageyama Tobio,_ Scorn whispered. _King of the Court._ Contempt swelled inside him like a tide, a bitter anger at someone he’d only ever seen once or twice in his life. _King of the Court_ echoed inside his head like a drop of water in a silent cave, sending shockwaves through him, sparks that singed the tips of his fingers. ‘Kageyama Tobio, 16, 1 st Year Class 3.’ Contempt moved within him once more, petty pride at not being a genius bound only to a sport. ‘…Hinata Sho—’

            ‘Let’s go mess around with them, hm?’

            They crossed the yard and stood, watching, waiting for an opportunity, Yamaguchi’s heart beating loud enough for the both of them; he wasn’t scared of the underclassmen in the slightest, but it was the thrill that came with being beside Tsukki, the sense of absolute strength, of witnessing the quaver in someone else’s voice, the aversion of their eyes. Tsukki had power Yamaguchi would never possess, but lacked the drive to wield it, making moments like these all the more titillating, all the more special, all the more a Big thing to compensate for all the small things that seemed to plague them.

            As the short one comes in for the receive, Tsukishima is surprised by just _how_ short he was; he’d never thought Kageyama to be the type to teach a younger kid, especially one that appeared to lack any real future in volleyball. He glances to Yamaguchi, who whispers in his ear: ‘Hinata Shouyou, 16, Year 1 Class 4.’ His breath is warm and tickles, like an excited schoolchild, eager to spread a secret. His eyes flick over to the kid, annoyed at his own oversight. But if they were so desperate that they needed someone so pitiful, it’s no surprise that Daichi was eager to shoehorn him into the team.

            Tsukishima snatched the ball just above the kids head, felt its weight in his hand. ‘They’re really doing it outside,’ he murmured, tossing the words back to Yamaguchi, smoothly, their repartee back in full force.

            And so it went. Back and forth with Kageyama, provoking him, watching that aloof face grimace, watching him hold his own frame in place, as each word from Tsukishima’s mouth ricocheted off , as if he’d get blown away. _There are people who know how to talk_ , Yamaguchi realises. _There are people that know what to say_.

            Even as he’s grabbed by his shirt collar, Tsukishima is laughing, is smirking, is tracking Kageyama’s every breath, every twitch across his face; the other boy is a book before him, emotions scrawled across like prose. (‘Tsukki!’ Yamaguchi calls reflexively, but it’s useless, it’s said to no audience at all.)

            And it’s over as quickly as it starts, Kageyama walks away, and Tsukishima breathes. And laughs. And throws a last taunt: ‘Maybe I’ll win against the King this Saturday, too.’ And throws the ball up, casually, and with it throws his life askew.

            Soft brown eyes, like shards of common, young sea glass, dark and frosted at the edges. A storm still reflected in those fragments, dark grey and churning. The ball doesn’t return to his hand.

            ‘I’m here too.’ A declaration of intent, of existence, a tide gaining traction.

            But it takes only half a second for the mood to dissipate, for the kid to backpedal, for the world to be set up right again.

            He breathes, blinks, clears his head that had become clouded with unnecessary and unidentifiable thoughts, stretches the courteous smile as far as it will. ‘Let’s not get so intense.’

            The rally again, that neither side wins.

            ‘We’re your teammates starting today, but enemies today.’ Two teams depart.

            They’ve walked a few minutes past the clearing before either of them speak, Yamaguchi’s hands jittery by his sides, Tsukishima’s eyes unusually cool and long, as if he’s watching his whole life mapped in front of him, as if he sees something new and alarming.

            ‘What did you say the kid’s name was?’ Tsukishima says, turning his head to Yamaguchi in order to get his full reaction, to hear the name spoken most clear.

            ‘Hinata Shouyou,’ Yamaguchi says, barely pausing between the names, feeling them fall from his mouth like five small stones, _plink!_ , with ripples that cause tsunamis.

            ‘Mmm.’ Tsukishima offers in response. He turns his eyes down for the first time that day.

            Yamaguchi doesn’t have to play detective.

           


	3. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry i disappeared here u go
> 
> warning for underage smoking

            It began slowly—a cough. Fatigue. Shivering. A list of symptoms is progressive--Web MD doesn't list death as the first sign of lung cancer, even if it may be the most obvious. Because there's always a first signal, or two, or several, or an entire life of built up, seemingly meaningless incidences that coalesce into one disease. There's decades of smog, years of smoking in that between stage of a child and an adult, the asbestos that lined your grandfather's roof. _Morbidly,_ Yamaguchi thinks, _morbidly, love is the same way._

            His ceiling is basked in a husky glow; he fondly called it his ‘mood’ lamp, able to encompass all attitudes that could require contemplation. He turned it on when he felt dramatic, when he felt every move he made was watched; when he felt he needed time to think. _To think_. Tsukki thought it was ridiculous. But then again, everything Yamaguchi did was ridiculous, to an extent, and he was always very, _very_ aware of it. Aware of it, aware of his every action, aware of every perception. Yamaguchi insincerely believed he could read minds, or at the very least was incredibly perceptive of what others saw in him and thought of him—he’d dismissed it obviously, as a joke, when he mentioned it on a walk home with Tsukki, but instead of rebuffing him, Tsukki’d instead tilted his head to the side and said nothing. Yamaguchi continued his rambling. They never brought it up again.

            But if there was one thing Yamaguchi was good for, it was for memorizing. It was for compartmentalizing. If there was one thing Yamaguchi was good for for Tsukishima, it was his memory. (He tried not to dwell on that, on his usefulness for his best friend, too hard—tried not to shape their relationship into something so defined, something so black and white. They were friends. Friends didn’t have set values, set prices, set abilities. They were friends.) Tsukki commented on it, often, approvingly; it wasn’t like Tsukki to ever forget, but he really didn’t need to, when he had Yamaguchi beside him.

            And it was his ability to perceive that made him so aware of their dynamic. There was the superhero, and there was the sidekick, and if any competition of affection could determine which of them was which, Yamaguchi always resounded as the tag along. It was Yamaguchi that had to get along with everyone, it was Yamaguchi that had to smile, and had to offer his lunch, and had to laugh even when it wasn’t funny, just to be acknowledged, but it was Tsukishima that got candy, candy that they shared together; it was Tsukishima who was admired. Yamaguchi was entirely certain that the girls that gifted to Tsukki did it as a ritual: there were girls from middle school that sent him a package every year, girls that approached him and faltered each day the week leading up to Valentine’s Day. They looked like they were preparing to run the gauntlet, who the reconsidered halfway down the hall, who turned on their heels and would return the next day, their constitutions revitalized.

            And Yamaguchi also figured that for all the attention Tsukki got, little of it was for him as a person. These girls used him as a goal, as a chance to prove to themselves that they _could_ , that Tsukishima Kei was a mountain to climb, or a marathon to run. And even if it was just a formality, a ritual, Tsukishima Kei was never rude, and Yamaguchi admired that, that he was courteous to the girls that approached him, when he really didn’t need to be. That even when they shared the chocolates for the next weeks, even when Yamaguchi foraged through the boxes for the strawberry crème filled ones, even in the small unspoken actions that they did for each other, really that Yamaguchi did for him, even then Tsukishima was respectful. Never necessarily polite, never admiring, but always respectful of all those girls.

            And even if Yamaguchi wasn’t completely willing to admit it, he was jealous, very jealous, so jealous he could feel spite, thick and ugly, in his stomach, of _all those girls_ , of _all that attention_ , and sometimes he couldn’t pinpoint just which party he was jealous of exactly.

            But even if Yamaguchi wasn’t confident, he was confident in _that_ , in that perceptible boundary that existed around Tsukishima which had expanded slightly to include him. He was confident in their friendship by now, confident in the fact that he was the only one to see _just how_ civil Tsukki really was. Bitterly confident in the latter.

            Yamaguchi rolls over in his bed.

 

* * *

 

 

            Yamaguchi knew a lot of pointless facts about Tsukishima—if prompted, he could most likely give a more detailed history than even Tsukishima himself. He knew what Tsukishima liked to eat and what he didn’t, and what he was ambivalent to, and what he had yet to taste. He knew what colours he liked, and how he felt about every issue known to man, and how many hours of sleep he got on average. He knew everything, he though, everything but the most important things.

            So it therefore stunned him when he suddenly became privy to the fact that Tsukishima Kei smoked.

            They were in Tsukki’s yard, him against a tree and Yamaguchi beside him, flat against the ground, watching wisps of clouds float across a navy sky. The crickets were still in chorus, cicadas harmonizing along, and everything had felt so peaceful; the oppressive heat of the day had faded into a warmth that enveloped him, held him close as the finished their last summer of middle school.

            He wasn’t saying anything, for once—Yamaguchi had learned to appreciate the times where he needn’t talk, where they could just communicate in silence, where their bodies lay in tandem, breathing synchronized, the world aligned. And that was alright, then, just them together. Just friends.

            And Yamaguchi watched the sky as he heard the strike of a lighter, as he watched that first curl of smoke, an omen, a sign. The smell of tobacco, the faint light of the embers, the sudden darkness that enshrouded them as the cicadas slept, as evening turned to night. It was 9PM, the 14th of July, 2012 when Yamaguchi first realized he didn’t know everything about his best friend.

            But he knew how to handle the situation, probably, knew how to respond to being allowed to see Tsukki like this. He turned his head in the dark, felt the now still air shift around him as he watched his best friend in partial profile, with his knees drawn to his chest, resting his head on his kneecaps, his arms tight against it all as if he was barely holding himself together. Yamaguchi knew not to ask questions, knew to take the whole bizarre scenario in stride, but he couldn’t help but feel hurt; Tsukki smoked without a hitch, hadn’t coughed once, could exhale in a thin stream, had obviously been doing this for a while and Yamaguchi hadn’t known, hadn’t so much as smelled smoke on him before.

            Tsukishima turned to him, suddenly, his eyes alight, the gold of his irises flickering in the small light held in his hand. He gestured to Yamaguchi with the cigarette between his fingers, held delicately, ash toppling to the grass. For all Yamaguchi knew about him, he didn’t know what to do now. So he pulled himself up against the tree as well, shoulder to shoulder, his nervousness thrumming through him. Tsukishima held the cigarette out to him, long white fingers holding what felt like Yamaguchi like a trial, a test of his loyalty. A few seconds passed while they sat, Yamaguchi with his mouth slightly open, watching the cigarette carefully, and Tsukishima with his drawn into a half-smirk, his generally bemused expression coloured by the slightest tint of doubt, his eyes watching Yamaguchi carefully, taking him in completely.

            And Yamaguchi accepted, tentative fingers reaching out to take the cigarette between his own, shaking slightly. And Tsukishima is suddenly there, steadying his shaking hands with his own, whispering into his ear. _Don’t drop it._ Yamaguchi shudders.

            Tsukishima’s hands fall away as Yamaguchi brings the cigarette to his lips, and he takes an experimental inhale only to let it out immediately. Tsukishima laughs, lightly, and Yamaguchi laughs too. But Tsukishima reaches for the cigarette and Yamaguchi yields it, with the distinct feeling that he’s let Tsukki down, again. _You’re too scared_ , Tsukishima says, with a smile, but beneath it Yamaguchi can hear _You’re too scared of me._ And it's true, in a way, because Tsukishima is in fact terrifyingly stoic, terrifyingly closed off to everyone but Yamaguchi, but it'd been reassuring that at least Yamaguchi knew him but, in fact, perhaps he didn't know him at all.

            Tsukishima places it against his lips again, takes a long drag and holds it for seconds, and when he exhales it’s a heavy sigh, and all over again Yamaguchi has made a mistake. And Tsukishima turns toward him when he takes another deep inhale, the embers inches from Yamaguchi’s nose, the sudden uptake causing a light spark that falls onto Yamaguchi’s pants leg as ash, and their eyes are inches away from each other but they’re barely visible to one another.

            And with that inhale Tsukishima swoops in, all smoke, all nighttime heat and when their lips touch Yamaguchi is both surprised and not surprised at all, is both taken aback and readily welcomes it, and Tsukishima’s tongue touches his lips tentatively and he gasps, inhaling smoke.

            And he exhales, too, through his nose, with their lips barely touching.

            It’s another of those things that Yamaguchi knows not to say anything about, so they continue in silence, smoky kisses in faint moonlight, two shadowed figures against a tree until the cigarette burns out. And even after that they sat, touching lightly, and Yamaguchi is reluctant to leave, but he does.

            (Tsukishima quits smoking after that night; Yamaguchi finds what had been left of his pack rolled up in tissue paper, placed on his computer desk. He keeps it in his own small box, on the top shelf of his closet, in amongst other things Tsukishima has given him—small letters, small objects, purpose.)

            And they never bring it up again.


End file.
